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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520358">Break the Habit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint'>doublejoint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M, Smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:13:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>But this image, blurry as it is, isn’t quite proof, but something more promising than Ryouta’s wishful thinking and a couple of coincidences that line up with it.</p><p>(In which Ryouta tries to find out if Shougo's really given up tobacco.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Haizaki Shougo/Kise Ryouta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Break the Habit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this whole fic is about quitting tobacco (cigarettes/smokeless) if the summary didn't give it away</p><p>i miss baseball</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ryouta only notices Shougo turning down chewing tobacco by accident. He’s been yanked from the game after three innings, standard in Spring Training but he feels like he’s just getting into a groove, sitting in the clubhouse with ice on his arm watching the TVs. A minor-leaguer on his team strikes out, and the broadcast cuts to the Detroit dugout, mostly to look at their first pitcher, some up-and-coming wild hard thrower who’s probably a month away from throwing himself back into the minors (though he’ll probably make the Opening Day roster). In the background, Ryouta catches a flash of teeth and a hand raised to turn something down. The camera’s out of focus but he can tell it’s Shougo by the tattoos laced up and down his wrist. He doesn’t know it’s tobacco being offered, but it’s his first thought, and his second thought is that it makes sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d called Shougo a few times for phone sex over the winter and Shougo had sounded more prickly and irritable than he usually had, like his spikes had spikes on top of them and there wasn’t any way for Ryouta to run his hands over them and not slice through his palms. Shougo had kept sending him dick pics and he hadn’t been so bad that Ryouta had ever seriously considered stopping or even slowing down the frequency of his calls. And after the first game they’d had against each other, in which neither of them had actually pitched, he’d followed Shougo back to the place he always rents in the spring, but the ashtrays had been empty and he’d tasted like mouthwash and Mountain Dew instead of cigarettes, and Ryouta had almost hoped but he hadn’t wanted to say anything to put Shougo off it. (And Ryouta had needled Shougo for it since he’d started, told him it made him look stupid and that it was going to wreck his body and his endurance, and he’d meant it in more than the way they’d always thrown barbs and said nasty things they’d regret if it were anyone else. This hadn’t come from baseline contrarianism, but from actual concern, and years ago Shougo probably couldn’t tell the difference, and Ryouta might not have wanted him to.) But this image, blurry as it is, isn’t quite proof, but something more promising than Ryouta’s wishful thinking and a couple of coincidences that line up with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ryouta’s replacement gives up a home run, and Ryouta sighs. These games don’t count, but they’re not too far away from counting.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Ryouta skips the team bus back, waiting for Shougo in the parking lot and avoiding reporters. This time of year they want to be off the clock, still stretching out in the sun and getting used to the days in Florida being longer than a handful of hours. Even someone with as much name recognition as Ryouta is only going to get a few autograph hounds and ballhawks wanting an autograph; he gives them freely with a flick of his healthy wrist and marker after marker on surface after surface. Still, Shougo takes his sweet time, making him wait--maybe sneaking off somewhere to smoke a cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes out of the players’ entrance, though; he’s not going to craft an elaborate lie in a situation like that, Ryouta thinks. His cap is backwards; his stupid floral shirt is so fucking loud and clashes with his tattoos, bright red baseball stitches and blue flames and words and dates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ryouta.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s chewing gum; the snap of it echoes on the asphalt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late, Shougo-kun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “You coming over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed my ride.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shougo shrugs again and then heads over toward his pickup. His slide flip flops smack against the pavement; his shorts are stuck to the backs of his legs and it’s not even that hot out. Ryouta shamelessly checks out his ass; it looks pretty good, though it would probably be better in baseball pants. Shougo turns his head and shoots him an amused glance, and Ryouta doesn’t care. Better to break the tension here than to hold it up the whole way like a tarp over their heads in a rainstorm. Shougo tosses his bag in the truck bed, but Ryouta keeps his slung over his arm, dropping it between his feet on the passenger side and sliding the seat all the way back before he closes the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leather seat is uncomfortably, but not burning; warm; when Shougo turns the key in the ignition the air conditioner comes to life and blasts Ryouta in the face. It’s better than it not being there, he supposes. Shougo flips down the driver’s side visor and looks at the CDs he keeps up there, and unsatisfied with the selection flips the visor back up. He reaches in the back for a couple of lukewarm bottles of water and hands one over to Ryouta. Ryouta wrinkles his nose but Shougo’s not even paying attention, snapping his gum and rifling through the console for the pair of scratched-up aviators he claims are lucky. Why he needs luck at a time like this, Ryouta doesn’t know, but there are no packs of cigarettes or matches in there, nor is there anything in any of the cupholders--no old bag of dip, no stained coffee cup full of spat-out tobacco. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shougo starts the ignition for real, clicking his seatbelt into place and leaning forward to check for anyone in the way. The motion of his hand on the gearshift is familiar but compelling, and Ryouta lets himself zone out a little bit. His arm’s feeling okay, but he’s not driving back home headed toward the fucking CFX like Shougo is (though Shougo had pitched only one inning to Ryouta’s three). He could say something, but he’d normally wait until Shougo had taken a drag on his cigarette and rolled the window down or popped some tobacco in his mouth, to make a comment on that and then move on toward a dig at Shougo’s stamina. The windows are up; Shougo crushes the water bottle in his hand as he chugs the entire contents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You quit,” says Ryouta.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying,” says Shougo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ryouta can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, and maybe that’s why he’d chosen them, making his own luck. Shougo’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel; the sun sines off the five gold rings in his ear. Shougo snaps his gum again, but not so viciously. Ryouta turns on the radio, smirking at the cheery sounds of the pop station Shougo had left it on. He’s a little transparent sometimes, and it’s more fun that he’s a little more okay with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steak for dinner okay?” Shougo says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, because that’s what I got.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The catch in his voice is audible; he turns up the volume. Sometimes he’s a lot transparent.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tobacco was banned in mlb in 2016, but players who entered the league before then are still allowed to use in games--considering the timeline of knb (zaki being ~23 then) it's plausible he could just squeak by</p></blockquote></div></div>
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